Perhaps, Audrey thinks, if she washes them now, her parents won’t be quite so disappointed in her when she tells them. Just imagining the dismay on their faces—the realization that she is no longer a little girl, that she has not behaved how they would expect her to—causes her to scrunch her eyes shut.

Audrey swallows the rising tide of bile at the back of her throat and drops her head into her hands. She has no idea what she’s going to do next.

Simon and Garfunkel’s “Bridge Over Troubled Water” plays on the jukebox. Audrey has to strain her ears to hear the lyrics because the machine is on the far side of the bar and she has deliberately chosen the quietest table, tucked away in a corner far from eavesdropping ears, even though she is not expecting to see anyone she knows in this Holborn pub.

She sits waiting for Edward to return from the toilet, unsure whether she wants him to come quickly or not. But after more than two weeks of holding on to the news, she no longer feels able to bear the weight of it alone.

The table rattles and she leans over, wedging a coaster underneath the leg. As she sits up, the palm of her hand instinctively finds the flat of her stomach.

There is no sign yet, nothing to give her away. Nothing to indicate what is taking place inside her and has been for nine weeks now, according to the doctor: the cells dividing and multiplying, a brand-new person slowly morphing into life. This strikes Audrey as remarkable. That it is possible for another human to be growing inside her with no external evidence to communicate this fact to the rest of the world: no change in the color of her skin, no readable message on her face, no visible aura of protection around her.

Audrey sips gingerly at the white wine Edward has bought for her but it tastes strange—bitter—and she puts the glass back on the table.

And then there he is, striding around the bar toward her, smiling: his tall, dependable frame; his expression a question in need of an answer; his walk toeing an invisible line.

Can a walk, Audrey wonders, be sensible?

“That’s better. So how’s the revision going? First exam in six weeks? You’re going to do brilliantly, I just know it.” He takes a long, thirsty gulp from his pint of bitter before letting his fingers rest on hers.

His touch is light, but Audrey feels as though her hand is pinned flat to the table like a butterfly in a lepidopterist’s display case. “It’s OK. But you never know, do you? Not until you get in the exam room and read the questions. You could find out you’ve prepared completely the wrong topics.” She listens to her preemptive excuses, a preparation for the disappointment she feels sure will greet her results in four months’ time even though she is yet to sit her first paper.